


got me an appetite, now i can taste it

by velvetnoodle (goldfishsunglasses)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, First Meetings, M/M, New York City, Punk Louis, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 02:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14323035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/velvetnoodle
Summary: It's a hot, June night when Louis spots the man in the crowd, and it's about to get hotter





	got me an appetite, now i can taste it

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: staircase / rimming
> 
> thank you to @amandaisnotwriting on tumblr for the beta!
> 
> enjoy!

It’s the middle of June, and the city of New York is still in the throes of the worst heatwave in years, with record-breaking highs and a weeks worth of triple-digit temperatures. (That’s one thing Louis still isn’t used to - even after six years in this country; everyone should just use the same units of measurement, dammit.)

Anyway.

It’s the middle of June, New York City is hot as hell, and there’s a man standing in the middle of the sweaty crowd that’s come to watch his band perform - all clad in short skirts and vests and ripped up jeans - wearing a suit. An entire bloody suit. In _June_. 

It’s not like the club is air-conditioned either - Louis would know, as he owns a third of it - so this guy must be dying. Only he doesn’t look ruffled, not in the slightest, just watching Louis sing with a cocky smirk on his lips and a promise in his eyes. Or, at least that’s what it looks like from where Louis’ standing. It might just be the stage lights. 

Still.

He’s still the only one in the whole place wearing a suit, Louis can’t be blamed for staring. That doesn’t stop Niall from sidling over during the drum solo and whispering in his ear, “You plannin’ to tap that?”

(Louis’ sharp elbow to the ribs, however, keeps him from asking further questions.)

The rest of their set continues like that. Louis can’t keep from focusing all of his attention on the man, and his bandmates have noticed. Everyone’s probably noticed; he isn’t exactly being subtle. 

Listen, he hasn’t gotten any proper action in weeks; if he wants to eyefuck a fit bloke who seems down for a shag, well, he’s a grown man. He can do what he likes, thank you very much. And right now, he wants to do Suit Guy, wants to climb him like a fucking tree, wants… 

Wants Zayn to leave him the fuck alone.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he hisses. “You’re gonna mess up my solo.”

“Mate, if anyone’s gonna mess up your solo, it’s not gonna be me.”

Louis scowls. “Shut up.”

“‘m just saying, your erotic staring contest can wait until the end of the set.” Zayn wisely side steps the kick Louis aims at his ankle - obviously expecting that exact reaction to his words, and Louis scowls harder as he resumes playing. 

He makes an effort to look out at a different part of the crowd, but he can still feel the man’s eyes on him. It’s sad, really, how much he cares about whether or not some blokes noticed him. It’s not like him to worry about these things; even though he hasn’t slept with anyone for a while, it’s because of choices _he_ makes. Louis gets plenty of offers, thank you very much - he is absolutely _not_ hard up.

Pun not intended. 

Also, he kind of is. Hard. The lights are (hopefully) low enough that it’s not too noticeable, but once he finally catches the eye of the man from before, his expression tells Louis that at least _one_ person has noticed. 

Well, alright then.

The moment the man winks at him, Louis knows this is going to happen. He doesn’t know when, or where, or even how. But the invitation is there, an offer that Louis would be mad to refuse. Still, he’s not that easy, likes to make ‘em work for it. There’s a reason he’s come to be known in certain circles as Tommo the Tease, after all.

What can he say? He likes the power, gets off on it, honestly. There’s nothing more satisfying than watching someone lose control, knowing you were the one responsible, knowing you’re the reason for the writhing and the panting and the orgasms that wake up his roommates. 

(They really should invest in some ear plugs.)

And this man, this posh gentleman in his suit and wild mane of dark curls, doesn’t look like he loses control often. Which is fine.

Louis likes a challenge.

* * *

The drink waiting for him on the bar is not unusual - Perrie always makes his favourite after shows. What is unusual, however, is the man sat next to it, slowly nursing the same drink and smiling lazily at Louis like he’s been waiting.

“Hello,” he says, because his mum raised him to be polite, and the other man looks intrigued now.

“You’re English,” he says, and Louis blinks, because he hasn’t heard an accent like that in ages. 

“I am,” he replies. “Are you?”

The man smiles, and Louis’ knees absolutely do not go weak at the sight of the dimple carving it’s way into his cheek. He doesn’t answer, and Louis doesn’t actually mind, because the question was more rhetorical than anything. 

“Don’t get many lads like yourself around here,” he says instead, and the man chuckles.

“‘No, I imagine you probably don’t.”

“What brings you to our fair city, then? Business?” Louis sits back on the bar stool and lets his thighs fall open, just enough to be seen as an invitation. “Or is it pleasure you’re here for?”

The man snorts. “You’re very confident.”

“Am I? Hmm.”

Someone comes up behind the man then - Louis is peeved with himself for not getting a name first - that he vaguely remembers being out in the crowd next to his man. Well, not his… Not… 

Nevermind.

The man's companion starts talking animatedly, and Louis would leave - should leave - but his curiosity has been piqued too much to release this particular fish back into the pond. 

So, he waits. 

And waits. 

And waits some more, until it starts to border on embarrassing. Perrie’s giving him sympathetic looks, which he very strongly dislikes. He doesn’t want sympathy, he wants to get laid. (He does learn, though, that the man is called Harry, and, judging from the snippets of the conversation that he was absolutely not eavesdropping on, he does something fancy and important in the music industry.)

Bloody hell, it’s like this man has stepped out of Louis’ every single fantasy. There’s no way he’s real, no way he actually wants anything to do with Louis.

Well, he _did_.

Now, though, it’s been over 15 minutes, Louis’ sure of it, and he’s bored. It’s become obvious that Harry’s too caught up in conversation to pay attention to Louis anymore, so with a nod to Perrie and a glare at the back of Harry’s companions head, Louis slinks away from the bar and out the back door into the alley. 

* * *

Louis’ smoking on the fire escape when Harry finds him again. The air is sticky and humid, his sweaty clothing feels tacky on his damp skin. He’s gross and in desperate need of a shower, but none of that seems to bother Harry, not if the way he’s looking at Louis is any indication.

It’s weirdly flattering.

He’s shed his jacket somewhere between the bar and now, and Louis’ never been more turned on by the sight of a white vest than he is right now. Harry arms are now visible as well, littered with a collection of tattoos that rivals Louis’ own. He’s hit with the desire to touch each one, mark them up, make this man his. 

Instead, he waits.

When Harry makes no move towards him, Louis realises he’s going to have to take matters into his own hands. Out here in the shadows, the other man looks more vulnerable, more unsure of what he’s doing, such a far cry from the confident, sultry, suit-wearing mogul he first met at the bar. And honestly? Louis doesn’t hate it. In fact, it’s kind of hot. 

“Are we doing this or what?” he asks, and Harry jumps, eyes widening like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him.

“If you want to… I mean I do, but I’m just as happy to talk to you some more— I don’t want you to think I’m expecting anything or…”

“I don’t think that,” Louis laughs. “Well, I suppose I do, but not in the way you mean.”

“Wait, what do you think I think you mean?”

What? “What?”

“Sorry, I just mean… I didn’t come out here to fuck you, or anything.”

Huh. Well, that’s disappointing. “Okay, so just a chat, then?”

“Actually, I had something else in mind.”

“Oh?”

Harry swallows, and then his hesitant smile morphs into a cocky smirk, and Louis wonders just what exactly he’s gotten into with this enigma of a man. 

“Turn over for me?” he asks, and Louis complies without hesitation. Because if he’s right about Harry’s intentions, then he’s about to have a good time. Excellent, even. Louis loves getting eaten out, possibly even more than being properly fucked. Jesus Christ, Harry is perfect, absolutely divine. And he hasn’t even put his tongue up Louis’ arse yet. 

The metal of the fire escape stairs is hard and unforgiving on his knees. Louis barely notices the pain, doesn’t even care really, because Harry’s footsteps are getting closer; and then his fingers are slipping under the hem of Louis’ t-shirt, his thumbs are dipping into the waistband of his jeans, and Louis shivers in anticipation of what’s to come. 

He snorts at the pun, and Harry’s hands go still. “What’s wrong?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing’s wrong, just thought of something funny.”

“Care to share it with the class?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Alright.” and then the fingers are back, skimming his waist, exploring the skin under his pants, pulling his jeans and pants down as much as they’ll go without unbuttoning them. Louis braces his palms on the step above him and raises his hips just enough to show Harry what he wants, earning a chuckle from behind him. 

“Use your words, babe,” he says, and Louis lets out a noise of frustration. 

“No.”

“No? Okay then.” Harry digs his fingers in deeper, pressing, pressing, _pressing_ , everywhere, hard enough to bruise. 

It feels so so good that Louis’ whining without fully meaning to. Without really caring how desperate he’s coming across . Not anymore. It’s all out there, all on the table, and he can’t be bothering to be embarrassed by how much he wants Harry to do this. And other things of course. But right now? Right now he wants those plush lips sucking on his hole, like, yesterday. But first, he has to swallow some of his pride. 

“ _Please_ ,” he whines, too strung out to even manage to cringe at the way his voice cracks, and then Harry’s hands are finally doing what he wants, tugging at the buttons, pulling down the flies, and fucking _yanking_ until Louis’ naked from the waist down. He winces as his bare cock makes contact with the metal steps, and then strong hands are guiding his hips up and away until his cock is no longer in danger of a pinch. Or whatever kind of peril could befall it in that sort of situation. 

So, that happened. 

Nothing else happens next though, and Louis pushes his arse back in a not-so-subtle invitation. When Harry still doesn’t respond, Louis turns his head just enough to see the other man staring dumbly at his arse. 

“I know it’s a work of art worthy of the Met, and everything,” Louis snaps, “but you can admire it when you’re done.”

This seems to snap Harry out of his daze, but not fully, as he still sounds a bit off as he says, “You’ve got a tattoo there.”

“I do, yes.”

“And it’s a penguin.”

“No, it’s not.”

Harry looks confused now. “I’m pretty sure that’s a penguin, mate.”

“Okay, fine” Louis relents, it’s a penguin.”

“Why is there a penguin on your arse?”

“To provide a laugh for whoever's back there, obviously.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“It’s smiling.”

“Is it? I’ve never properly had a look.”

“Are you serious?”

“What, you think I just spend my days staring at my own arse?”

“Well… no, but wouldn’t you want to know what’s on your body?”

“Do you know what every single one of your tattoos looks like?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Louis snorts. “Of course you do. Are you planning to do that to me, then? ‘s that why you’re so eager to get me clothes off?”

“Of course not.” And then, there it is, the sound of Harry dropping down, the sensation of a warm tongue swiping over his hole, and Louis’ entire body jerks involuntarily. Harry pauses, his breath hot against Louis’ hole as he laughs softly, and then he’s at it again, sloppy and wet, like something out of every wet dream Louis’ ever had. 

The knowledge that Harry’s down on his knees for Louis’, eating him out under the flickering light outside the metal door, is nearly enough to make him come right then and there. But he refuses to let that happen, because this is quite possibly the best thing he’s ever felt, like, ever. It’s not ending until Harry’s jaw aches and Louis’ legs are jelly. 

He reaches one hand back and tangles his fingers in Harry’s curls, pulling his head forward until his tongue slides deeper into Louis’ arse, making him grunt softly. Harry answers his noise with a low moan, and it’s becoming obvious he’s getting off on this, on letting Louis use him like this. Bloody hell. 

In the dark of the club, Harry’s scruff hadn’t looked like much; a barely there thing, definitely not enough to rough him up the way he usually likes it. And he’s right, but somehow that’s worse, because the gentle scrape against the sensitive skin is too much, too soft, to delicate, an overload to his senses that has his thighs quivering in the most embarrassing way. 

He groans when Harry pulls away, and is seconds away from grabbing the man by the curls when he hears, “Ride my face.”

Louis can’t hold back a snort. “Don’t think that’s possible here, mate.”

“We can make it work.”

Rolling his eyes, he stands up anyway, using the rails for balance, not quite trusting his legs to keep him upright at the moment. He doesn’t look at Harry as they shuffle to trade places, doesn’t look when he hears the squeak of the steps that mean Harry’s sat down now, doesn’t look back at all, fighting that urge.

Until he can’t.

Harry’s grinning up at him, the lower half of his face shiny with spit, and that really shouldn’t be hot, but it _is_. Louis’ even closer to coming that he was a second ago, if that’s even possible, and he knows there’ no way he’s going to last much longer, especially once Harry’s tonguing him again. 

That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to let it happen. 

Louis swallows thickly, watching Harry’s expression closely as he slowly inches backwards. For someone who’s trusting a stranger not to crush his head, he looks perfectly relaxed. Content, even. In an acrobatic feat that Louis is convinced he’ll never be able to repeat - and, if he’s honest, doesn’t really understand how he’s pulling off now - Louis backs up slowly, steps lightly on the stairs without looking down, and, finally, begins lowering himself down, gentle inch by gentle inch, reaching back to grab a step. Before his fingers make contact, Harry’s hands have returned to their rightful place on Louis’ hips. 

He squeaks and tries to keep his balance as Harry tugs him down, feet starting to slip as Harry’ lifts his head, tongue first, and jams in into Louis’ hole, hard enough and deep enough to make him see stars. 

He comes then, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, because the last thing he wants is to make one of his bandmates show up to make sure he isn’t being like, mugged or something. (To be fair, they’ve seen him in worse positions, but he doesn’t fancy the possibility that it would scare Harry off.) (And he really, _really_ , doesn’t want to scare Harry off.)

As he waits for his breathing to return to normal, Louis realises his cheeks are wet, and he goes crimson at the thought that Harry’s mouth _literally brought him to tears_.

Yeah, there’s no way he’s letting this man go.

Harry nips at his arse, and Louis scowls. “What the hell?”

“I need to sit up,” he says.

“Right, yeah. Sorry.” Louis climbs off and goes to sit next to Harry, who stands up as soon as he’s able. He leans back against the steps and watches Harry brush dirt and gravel off the knees of his trousers. “This was fun.”

“Fun? I just made you come so hard you cried and all you have to say is ‘this was fun’?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a menace,” Harry groans.

Louis tries not to preen at how desperate Harry _still_ sounds. “So I’ve been told,” he says smugly. “Most people tend to enjoy it.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t.” He looks Louis up and down, who shivers under the intensity of his stare. Obviously satisfied with what he sees, Harry’s lips quirk into a cocky smiles before he asks the question Louis didn’t even know he’d been waiting to hear.“Would you like to come back to mine?”

So fucking posh, Louis thinks, even when angling for another round. “Depends,” he replies, working to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Where do you live?”

“Tribeca.”

Louis snorts. “I’m not going to fucking Tribeca.”

“Well, where do you live then?”

Louis jerks his chin at the building next to them. “Above this dump.”

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“We can go to yours.”

Louis hadn’t expected that answer. “I have roommates.”

“And?”

“And it wouldn’t be very private.”

“Are you inviting me up there for sex?”

“Is that not why you asked me to go home with you?”

Harry shrugs. “Mostly just wanted a cuddle.”

“You’re weird.”

“If sex is on the table though,” Harry says slowly, softly, and the anticipation of the the next words has Louis on edge in the best way possible.

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever been fucked on a balcony?”

Louis blinks and shakes his head. It’s not what he was expecting, but he can roll with it. “Nope, can’t say I have.”

“Would you like to be?”

“I don’t have a balcony,” he says dumbly, and Harry looks at him like he’s thick until it hits, and Louis groans. 

“Oh, fuck you,” he says, and then crosses his arms. “Is this what you do to all the boys? Get them sex-drunk and lure them across the city? How do I know you’re not some sort of serial killer, hmm?”

“I suppose you don’t. Is that a no, then?”

“Come meet me mates first, then we’ll talk.”

“Alright.”

Louis uncrosses, then crosses his arms again, and remembers what is was about Harry that intrigued him in the first place. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why the suit? It’s fucking hot out.”

“True, but it got your attention, didn’t it?”

“I suppose it did. Was that your plan, then?”

“Well, it’s not like you noticed me any other time.”

Wait, what? “What are you talking about?”

Harry laughs. “I’ve been trying to get you to notice me for weeks, you knob. Turns out all I had to do was overdress. Who knew? Is that like a thing for you? Suits?”

“What? No, no it’s… Weeks?”

“Yeah. Weeks.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re fit as hell, mate. Did I not make that obvious before?”

Louis blinks. And then blinks again, because _what_? “But you were all… And this was all… Do you even live in Tribeca?”

“Really? That’s what you choose to focus on?”

“Of course. So, do you?”

Harry nods. 

“And what are we gonna do when we’re there?”

“Well,” he says, “I believe I promised to fuck you on my balcony.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And then? What next?”

“And then,” Harry says, sticking his arse out enough to catch Louis’ attention, “it’s your turn.”

Louis isn’t even that into rimming, but at that moment he wants nothing more than to get his mouth on Harry, to bury his face in that arse that, although he hasn’t fully scene, is quite on display with the way the suit trousers are tailored. _Christ_. He’s not going to survive this. And not the way he’d originally assumed. Harry’s not a serial killer; he’s _worse_.

Because now Louis’ addicted, and he’ll follow this man and his boyish pouty lips anywhere.

Even Tribeca.

**Author's Note:**

> [click here to reblog on tumblr!](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/173609877522/the-drink-waiting-for-him-on-the-bar-is-not)


End file.
